#brandishing it's victims

[weirdlookindog]

"Le poulpe brandissait la victime comme une plume"

Alphonse de Neuville (1835-1885) - Brandishing it's Victim

Illustration from Jules Verne's "Twenty thousand leagues under the sea", 1870

[neotaissong]

[cacaitos]

i shouldnt force this but what do you think abt kakugos whole rising sun reclaiming situation

hmm to be honest.. if it's from the heisei manga. to begin with, it's a ridiculously senseless manga all down to quality. on one hand you got the guy that goes on and on about violence and revenge is always the answer and a count- i mean someone without weapons is weak and prone to be abused by the Every Other and like a woman while a conspicuous rising sun waves behind him fighting the both iron-cross-wearing punk ultra masculine violent misogynistic Other thats also the degenate kink leather-wearing queer (in the slur way) Other. and for some reason im supposed to get any productive synthesis out of that conflict. and like, at some point it gets all so bold, and having read KnS first, i could only imagine as i read that it must be some kind of conclusion or twist or literally anything at the end. and it then it just ends on a random mid-fight scene.

again, having read KnS first, thats not only yk Finished but that also basically negates basically most of the plot and elements of it, in comparisson heisei not only seems but ultimately revealed as even more amateur, unripe, weak structured, unfinished, thoughtless and useless of a read. furthermore, as i understand from yamaguchi works even beyond KnS, that's still one of his earlier less polished works, his works seem to deconstruct (though i didnt say how successfully) at least from his own experience those value systems, dunno if to his own work specifically tho, if at least from a their media legacy/influence level. but that's an idea i got from that essay i rbd a while ago, idk maybe his manga abt the toku fan one is shit and takes down everything i just said, idk since i havent read it. i look forward to know how he executes shigurui and such, a the toku fan one too, to confirm first hand in time. even if yamaguchi didnt change his stance it's just Weird. Red Flag. but also i don't get the fucking point of it.

deviation aside, if you meant from kakugo no susume, tbh i dont remember if the rising sun thing got assigned to kakugo at x or y, if any, moment; memory fails me. but the military uniform, for ex, to start with is a fair thing to point out to begin with. yes, kakugo is The Good Guy thats categorically opossed to resembling his g.grandfather or his ideologies, yet wears a hs uniform alike to the military japanese imperial one. but focusing on only kakugo is kinda missing the wider landscape. i mean the manga is riddled with that kind of contradiction, and to pick on one is to pick on many others. now, i wouldnt consider KnS any like Mature internal dialogue of fascism or anything, despite at least the textual reprehension for the imperial mindset and material effects/atrocities. the authors themselves admit is kind of a dumb series not precisely unintentionally, and again not the most polished work of yamaguchi, if you wanted to get a thorough and concise conclusion on anything. even if you tried the story wont help you on it lol, thats the thing with questionable quality writng.

[vienssunshine]

What are the Halloween costumes that would drive JJK characters crazy?

pairings: Maki, Choso, and Nanami x fem!reader nsfw: drug use, implied sexual activity

Maki: Black Cat

Maki has no issue with your "costume" being just lingerie and cat ears. Well, you had drawn a little triangle on your cute nose, so she'd give you credit for that. But even so, how could she mind the basic costume when you made it look so good? It's hard to focus on the conversation she's having when the body suit—so tight on your gorgeous silhouette—is riding up on your hips, allowing her to make out the curve of your ass. And just below it, she can see your black thigh highs and how they squeeze your legs, a little bit of your flesh spilling out over the top. With a sight like this, she can't stand there staring the whole time, she has to come over and introduce herself to the pretty girl in the cat costume. You'd giggle your name back to her and do a terrible job of hiding how your eyes flick down to the strong but elegant hands of hers that you just took a drink from. Later in the night, when you two end up pressed together in the closet of someone's house, she would show you how she's quite the cat person and knows how to take care of your pussy.

Choso: Vampire

This boy is emo!!! And so touch starved, so when you're smoking his weed outside of your friend’s party and you playfully threaten to bite his neck, he agrees. With a fanged smile, you pass the blunt back to him and place your hands on his built shoulders so you can close in on your victim. He shudders at the sensation of your breath on his throat, pulse thumping through his neck as he senses you move closer and closer until your fake fangs graze his pale skin. His hand grabs onto your arm, but he doesn’t stop you as you gently bite his flesh. It’s not enough to draw blood, but it still sends a shiver of—fear? excitement? ...arousal?—down his spine. As a thank you for providing make-believe sustenance, you remove your fangs from his neck and plant a gentle kiss in their place, causing his fingers to squeeze around your arm. Your kiss leaves a smear of your red lipstick on his skin, but he doesn’t wipe it off, he likes being marked.

Nanami: Classic Movie Killer

Nanami would find all your little teases about how he should ‘watch out’ because ‘there’s a serial killer on the loose’, very entertaining. You’d brandish your flimsy plastic knife and draw a line across his throat with it while telling him he should be grateful you haven’t killed him yet since, if you wanted to, you could. He’d cross his arms, showcasing his strong, veiny forearms, and tilt his head with an “Oh yeah?” and watch as you stumble over yourself to double down on your empty threats. Aside from the fact that he would be able to pin you in under a second, he knows it'd be impractical to kill anyone in the skimpy get-up you're wearing. Not that he doesn't like the little 'killer' outfit though, he actually has a hard time keeping his eyes from roaming the bloodied, exposed skin your crop-top and skirt reveal. Of course he’d keep his composure at the Halloween party, but after it he'd take you home and rip off your costume, leaving you bare and naked and dripping with arousal, and it’s only then he'd allow himself to teach you who should be scared of who.

[justblades]

⌕ SUCK HIM DRY, 18+

⟢ CHARACTER : jing yuan x afab! reader WC : 1.7k

⟢ WARNINGS : EXPLICIT, MDNI. dubcon, succubus! reader, hypnosis

⟢ SUMMARY : a succubus preys on a luofu general — a battle of wits, who will outsmart the other given that both parties should not be underestimated? perhaps only time can answer.

the mara-struck, the ambrosial arbor— the legends drift to outsiders once they set foot on the xianzhou luofu. almost everything is possible in this setting, it was natural for devils who feed on sins to exist along with these species, and so you descend into the ship undercover, looking for a particular victim.

your interest was piqued by a distinct foxian lady whose ears are tall and in tan color, especially the notable, fluffy tail wagging just behind her. she has a little wooden table set in front of her and atop the birch surface are multiple pictures of a silver long haired male, smile as cunning yet blithe at the same time. the most notable feature however is the angel mark just below his left eye, followed by his long onyx lashes framing his aureate irises.

from the clothing he dons, it was clear-cut he's someone of a high ranking. you were not to be underestimated now that you're running low on your fill, so you opted for unconventional methods: by buying intel about the person and immediately found almost everything the luofu general does. a small price to pay for your deprivation.

apparently his name is jing yuan. it rolls off your long tongue smoothly. his charisma, his aura and his name: he's a perfect target. your adrenaline levels spike as you envision what you'll do to him once you lay your hands on the male, dozen scenarios flashing from one to another.

at present with a remarkable entrance, you finally emerge out from the shadows and make an appearance for your victim. although jing yuan's eyes are heavy lidded as he was a second apart from completely dozing off, he manages to brandish his weapon in an instant, hoisting it at your figure. the indolence he displayed from earlier immediately dissipates into thin air, his masculine voice cuts through the thick ice of tension lingering in the vicinity.

"you finally showed yourself. i've been waiting since earlier." it was just 10 words but he exceeds your expectations. never have your presence been sensed by anybody as that is one of your skills, to be able to conceal yourself and your true identity. jing yuan isn't to be taken too lightly, it appears. but no matter how he was able to anticipate your arrival, he still fell prey on your yearning hands.

he suddenly grunts in struggle as his limbs get pinned down on the sculpted, hazel chair before him. jing yuan loses control of his own body and you continue to stride towards him, a lecherous smile carved on your lips. "general jing yuan . . you're quite an attractive man." you whisper as you lean closer to his face, your hot breath ghosts a caress on the very shell of his ear.

the general was addled at first, trying his best to discern what kind of creature you really are. "you look confused, i'll grant you the privilege of knowing what i am." your words were honeyed as your eyes lock a wary gaze with his golden hues. "i'm just a demon who feeds on people . . the sin of lust particularly, and i'm here to claim your life once i successfully do so."

forcing a kiss on his sultry lips, your fingers grab a hold of his chin, making sure to deepen further your tongue in— making you feel more tantalized than before. jing yuan's brows furrow, continuing to struggle to break free from the curse you laid upon him. quickly breaking the seal of the kiss, you couldn't help but chuckle, "you taste so delicious general! i wonder if it's the same down here."

jing yuan glances at where your other clawed hand trails, his vision landing on his erection, all exposed from how you swiftly ripped his pants open. slowly gliding your digits against his prominent veins of a reddish tan mixed of violet shades, you merit yourself with the general's grunts of arousal as he closes his eyes shut.

he grinds his teeth, "i've heard of such creatures but i never would've imagined they were true." he struggles to speak eloquently like he always does now that he's under your teasing touch. suddenly, a warm feeling envelops his twitching length, only to realize you were sucking his girthy cock. "does it feel good, general?" you query, bobbing your head up and down while making a vacuum like suction as you suck all of him in, your tongue fiddling his dick's folds.

the silver haired throws his head back in defeat, unable to budge a movement as he was stuck in a sitting position. with a succubus pleasuring him, he couldn't deny it was a wonderful sensation. he eventually lets his guttural moans come undone and follow suit one after another, sounding into your ears like awards or prizes for doing your job well. amidst of this, he starts to think of a way to free himself from these invisible restraints but you heeded no mind and continue to indulge yourself in carnal desire.

however as you didn't underestimate jing yuan, the same could be said for you. after all, you meticulously planned to draw away everyone's attention in jing yuan's office just so you can prey on him. time flashes by rather quick and liquids of release sprawl into the hidden depths of your throat as you also toy with your sloppy cunt, growing eager to lap all of him even more.

"one out of three. once you cum thrice, it's a bye bye." the sentence cut off jing yuan's rowdy train of thoughts, but as he was powerless before such specie, you were able to insert his dick in, straddling his thigh, facing the male. he flinches as your tight walls coil around his shape, the head of his dick meeting with your cervix, " . . you're big!" you exclaim, your eyes widening into two full moons, shock coursing through your veins.

resting your hands on his broad shoulders, you begin to bounce on him, raising your ass and push your hips down on his thick, heating dick. your eyes never left jing yuan's, and you swear you could feel how much he's been thinking in spite of the low mewls he lets out— "yes, just keep looking at me like that!" taunting the general even more, his piercing, brazen stare sharpens, almost penetrating right through your soul.

"oh, general . ." you call out to him as you moan his name, "general jing yuan . . xianzhou luofu is such a pretty place!" naughty, squelching noises reverberate inside the vast space, accompanied by you and jing yuan's bit back moans of satisfaction. now locking your hands around his neck and fingers ruffling his long, luscious, ashy strands, you give him another open mouthed kiss, one that is much more gentler than the other, eyes closed to engage with the sensation.

noticing the littlest details of a person's body language, gifted to every succubus or incubus birthed into this universe, you could sense how his dick throbs, signaling for his release soon. the corners of your lips lift, displaying a smug smile once you pick up your speed and add more force on your movements, shaking your hips slowly to earn more sounds from the male's mouth.

"i— i'm—" jing yuan groans and the second round of his climax dawns, filling your velvet walls with his muddy white seed to the point that a good amount seeps into your womb. you feel your body lighten and improve in condition, "i wasn't wrong in choosing you at all. even your cum tastes refreshing— i can also make you do this."

the general's body moves by itself as he bends you over the table this time with one push, your face slapping against the varnished surface. his hand tightly clasped on your shoulder blades, you wiggle your pelvis so his head meets with your lips— and prods through your fluttering folds once more. he heaves deep breaths, more waves of pleasure crashing on him, even though it was against his will, he couldn't deny that he feels good from it.

your head spins as his thrusts were far more powerful than you expected. you didn't take into account how raw power works in these instances but it made the experience hundred times better— you were starting to lose your mind as he fills you with his cock, beads of his satisfaction trickling down past your thighs.

"what a naughty general!" you remark with absolute mockery, "is this what you fantasize about while you keep the luofu's peace, jing yuan?" snickering at the end of your sentence, you were surprised to hear him respond. "yes, and it seems like you're a perfect fit." you were taken aback by his reply.

he proceeds to flip your body around, carrying your figure with his mere two arms. he rises from his position and guides your legs to lock around his waist, his cock reaching deeper than before and rubbing on the other parts of your walls. "what— no! how could y—" jing yuan cuts off your protest with a passionate kiss, you could feel his lips tug into a smirk.

"where's your playful nature now?" jing yuan's words exude of irony and sarcasm: having enjoyment at how confusion washes over your facial features. "i'm not an ordinary being either - i'm afraid to say you only set yourself up for failure." the cocky aura from your stature ceases, jaw falling agape and your lustful eyes' gleam die down.

he speeds up his thrusts, intruding your tight cunt with an unrealistic speed. despite of worry gnawing at your perturbed mind, you couldn't stifle the mewls slipping from your lips. "it only took me . . a while to overcome your binds." the general clarifies and with one last stroke, more strings of milky like substance spring out from his cock, painting your walls white.

as soon as he fills you up, he lets go of your body, making a loud thud sound. you were left there unable to move, even more perplexed as to why. even though it didn't hurt you one bit, your mind was just occupied at just how powerful the general is. he exits your peripheral vision for a while, only to come back with new clothing donned as if the ones you ripped earlier weren't busted at all.

the seat of divine foresight's gates swing open, revealing numerous cloud knights in preparation for combat.

"be careful bringing her to the cell, this one's dangerous. i shall pay a visit later."

my masterlist !

[fanaticsnail]

The Hawk and the Fledgling (P2)

Masterlist Here, Part 1 Here.

Word Count: 3,365 (Yeah, it was meant to be a drabble but the words ran away with me again)

I ended the year with Mihawk, looks like I'm starting the year off with him too! Lets goooooooo.

Warnings: Kissing, pining, longing, fighting, mentions of illness, drinking, kissing.

Taglist: @whatthemonsterfuckisthis, @writingmysanity, @gingernut1314, @alphaash99, @someobsessionrequired, @bookandstar

Hanahaki Disease is a disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from  unrequited love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.

You presented your thumb and index finger up to your swollen lips, chapped and coarse from the hoarse coughing while warm to the touch. You felt no remanence of the illness that once eclipsed your body and rendered it unresponsive and trapped beneath the curling vines. The only aspect that remained was a small flurry of pale flower petals atop your tongue, prompting you to reach your fingers inwards to pull them out.

You were still sitting atop the wooden table Mihawk had placed you on moments prior, shock falling from your every fiber. You felt warm, light and breathless. Even though you had no weight placed on your chest, you felt burdened by the knowledge that lord Dracule Mihawk thought himself not to be the harborer of your affections.

As soon as you pinched one of the soft petals from its place atop your tongue and held it up to your eyes to examine the almost innocent-looking harbinger of doom, the door swung wide and Zoro was shoved harshly onto the cobblestone floor. His heavy boots were thumping franticly against the stone with haste, his eyes wide and searching yours for any affliction.

“I’ve brought the oaf for you,” your mentor spoke, his eyes not meeting with yours as he hastily walked through the kitchen to the leather-bound wall displaying his vast collection of wines. The many bottles were laying flat, perpendicular to the floor in catalogued rows from whites, roses and reds. Selecting one without reading the label, he reached his hand down and found a corkscrew and began hastily, and almost aggressively, brandishing it to rid the cork from the bottle neck.

Zoro gasped, sauntering over to you with wide strides and taking your cheek beneath his palm. He rose your chin upwards with the angle of his wrist, eyes darting between yours as his thumb smoothed a small circle over your cheekbone. He circled his grip down, your bottom lip feeling contact from his calloused thumb atop it as he continued looking you over.

“Hanahaki, right? Love unrequited?” he whispered softly, leaning down lower to your face in a low stoop. His eyes were warm, soft and almost apprehensive – a painted triad you were yet to see atop the green-haired swordsman.

This was the fifth time you were rendered speechless this day: the first being the knowledge that such an affliction exists in this realm, death and withering away your body by the doomed flowers and vines strangling your organs. The second was the knowledge that your unrequited and intense emotional love for your mentor, Dracule Mihawk, was the factor propelling you into this dooming fate. The third, Mihawk assumed your doom was due to the fact you were infatuated with your peer and his fellow pupil – not himself. The fourth, Mihawk confessed he had held a certain romantic fondness towards you; your love not as unrequited as you once thought.

The fifth was the fact that Zoro was descending in his stoop; his face leaning closer and closer to you, his lips drawing ever nearer to yours as he closed his eyes. Halting his descent, he raised his unoccupied hand up to brush several strands of hair out from shieling your gaze from his. Your lips were almost brushing, you could feel the heat from his breath tinted with the flavor of green matcha-mochi and cherry blossom tea.

“I do not yet harbor love powerful enough for you romantically,” he whispered, moving his hand through your hair to cradle the back of your head, while falling his other to rest atop your shoulder, “but I am a fast learner.”

At that, your eyes widened further as he pressed his lips against yours in a slow and deliberate kiss. You rasped out a small squeak as Zoro deepened the kiss, his brow furrowing as he deeply inhaled through his nose and circled his chin to rotate the open mouthed kiss he was pressing against you. He reached down, pulling your wrists upwards to circle his neck in order to bring you closer against him. His torso pushed flush against yours, he redrew his palms upwards to collect your face and lace his fingertips into the back of your hair once more.

He was passionate, deliberate and also cautionary. He was falling all of his desire onto you, along with the desperation that comes with the knowledge that one of his friends is ill – this embrace being the only cure, to his current knowledge. Hearing a small ‘pop’ of the cork being pried away from the green-stained wine bottle, the next sounds that were heard within the room was the glugging pour from the bottle into a crystal glass.

Continuing to remain unresponsive, and eyes perpetually unblinking and wide in shock, you brought your shaking hands down to Zoro’s chest and gave him a small shove to halt his movements. He apprehensively drew himself away from your lips, eyes first closed while his lips almost chased yours in response to his withdrawal. You pushed him a little harder to halt more deep and passionate kisses being pressed into your lips, while listening to a small whistled chirp sound indicating Mihawk was oxidizing his selected vintage over his palate and tongue.

Zoro received the message and pulled away from your lips, a frown prominent against his face and kiss-swollen lips partially parted. His eyes searched yours, leaning forward to press his forehead against your own to bring himself closer to you.

“Are you okay? Is everything okay? Was this okay-?” he began, halting as you pressed your four fingers against his lips to halt his words. Pushing your forehead against his in return of his physical affection, you whispered in a voice only audible for him to hear.

“Zoro, I adore you. You are my best friend, my peer. My brother in arms,” you removed your hand from his lips and caressed his cheek. Sighing out a deep breath, you shut your eyes as you spoke low your confession, “but it was not you that was holding me hostage to the disease.”

Zoro’s eyes widened, immediately seeking the gaze of his mentor who seemed to be looking bored and as disinterested as he could make himself out to be. His arms were crossed, him holding the crystal wineglass filled to the brim with crimson liquid and leaning against the marble benchtop with his legs crossed at the ankles.

“But you’re okay now. What does that mean?” he asked, his tone curious and almost frantic. He drew his gaze back to you and a warm blush tinted his cheeks as your confession dawned on him. “You haven’t spoken to Perona yet, so I doubt it was her. Does that mean- did he, did he-.”

“-Zoro, if you wouldn’t mind,” you winced out, a blush rising of your own to spread warmth over the apples of your cheeks and tips of your ears. Zoro immediately got the message, his nose scrunching up and shoving you playfully with his arm as his wolfy grin spread over his lips to paint his face with his knowing smile.

“A shame,” he chuckled, turning from you to make his way out of the kitchen, “I would’ve liked to see where this goes.” You laughed in response, looking to the ground as you swung your legs down from their position atop the table and jumped to place them on the floor. Mihawk’s unblinking gaze trailed after Zoro, scowling at the smirk his young apprentice offered. Zoro turned once more, arched his eyebrows up twice at you and closed the kitchen door behind him.

“What does that mean, Fledgling? Rabbit done with you so soon?” He arched his brow up as you approached. You steadied your breath and reached up to collect the wineglass from Mihawk’s fingers and placed it on the countertop behind him.

“I was drinking that, Fledgling,” he lazily disregarded you, turning away and bringing his hand over to collect the stem of the crystal glass from atop the counter. You immediately halted him by placing your hand atop his wrist, your eyes brimming with caution over how he’d receive such a touch. Keeping your gaze fixed on the hand clutching his wrist, you sucked in a slow breath and allowed the caution to remain steadfast in shielding your intentions from him.

“Sir,” you addressed him, his chin lazily snapping over to hold his intense and spiteful irises against your smaller form.

“Yes, fledgling?” was all he said in response to you words. You took a moment to syphon through your thoughts, attempting to relay what you needed to in order to confess your disease and the cure of it; only to have them halted as soon as they formed behind your lips.

“Little kiss fixed you up, did it? The rabbit and the fledgling, hardly a fit I would match. However,” he turned his gaze away from your face to fixate on his wineglass atop the marble bench behind him, “it is fitting, considering your age and stage. A match many would desire: similar interests-.”

“Sir,” you uttered a little more firmly, hoping to break him away from his lazy and annoyed rant; but alas, to no avail.

“I should move your rooms closer together. It would be good to spur on your training: pit you against one another to bring more passion into your sparring-,” he continued, rolling his eyes and breaking his wrist away from your grip to reclaim his crystal chalice filled with the bitter taste of a darkened Shiraz. Your temper was hanging by a thread, your nerves shot alite under your emotional state.

You had nearly died of a broken heart, Mihawk had confessed his fondness for you – healing you with his words. Zoro had kissed you, something you neither needed nor desired for yourself – especially since recovering from the death-like illness. And Mihawk: your boss, your mentor, your love, he was continuing to absolutely dance around his own confession by continuing to drink, and talk.

“My lord-,” you attempted to draw in his attention to you by using his formal title, to no avail.

“-I shall send for a priest. Perhaps you’ll be married by the weeks end-,” he turned away from you and drew up the chalice to his lips. Agitation was growing within him, his lips curling up and eyes narrowing.

“Lord Mihawk-,” you hoped his name would bring some kind of sway over him, but he continued on his tirade of nonsensical theatrics.

“-I will have Perona be your witness. Considering no family for either of you present; it will be up to me to give you away, I suppose-,” his voice was increasing in volume, his anger rolling off him in waves.

“-Lord Dracule Mihawk!” you reached your arm to collect his shoulder beneath your palm, only for him to roughly shake off your tender touch.

He turned to face you, his brows deep in their descent against his forehead. He was enraged; understandable from his perspective. He not only witnessed his own unrequited love be cured of their disease by another, but willingly drew him in to present his lips against your own. All he could do was watch and wallow in his own rage.

“And where will you honeymoon, hm?! Going to make some strong, sword-wielding children soon, I presume! You’ll need to halt your training in favor of your-.”

You lunged forward, jumping high enough to grip his shoulders with your arms and wove yourself around his form: legs hooking his hips and joining together behind him by your ankles. You immediately circled his neck with your arms and dragging him onto you and smashing his lips against your own to silence his taunts. Your hands wove into his hair, his form immediately falling victim to your embrace with a small stumble. His right hand clutched the wineglass firmly, although the liquid spilt over the brim at the hastiness of your embrace.

His unoccupied hand drew itself up to hook itself around your waist and hold you flush against his torso. Opening his lips, he danced his tongue around your swollen bottom lip and joined it with your own with a low gasped moan. Sharing breaths, you continued to harshly reciprocate his almost violent and desperate collision of lips, tongue and teeth. If he pushed firm, you pushed harder. If he brushed his tongue with yours, you lightly bit the organ with your teeth.

As he trained you to continue to advance in brandishing your blade towards an enemy, never backing down for any reason; you continued this mantra as you wove your fingers into his blackened waves of loose curls atop his head. The actions, however, were absolutely reciprocated by the man woven between your thighs. If you bit his tongue, he pushed your face away and trailed a violent flurry of open mouthed kisses against your chin, jaw and neck – tongue swirling over your pulse before reclaiming his lips with your own.

You reached your hands up, removing his wide hat from his head to get a better anchorage against his body, prompting him to unceremoniously throw the crystal chalice against the polished cobblestone floor. The red liquid pooled at his feet, prompting a gasp to rise from your parted lips. Taking this small moment of distraction, Mihawk used both arms to hook beneath your legs and rotate you around him – pressing now your body against the marble countertop and burying his face on the exposed flesh between your neck and shoulder. His lips grazed over the skin, a tingle shooting up your spine and elevating the hairs on the back of your neck to stand to attention.

“M-My lord,” you stuttered out in a breathy whisper, your eyes glazed over and irises blown with lust. He growled in response, claiming a small portion of skin between his pearled teeth and biting your flesh gently. He moved his lips up, trailing and pressing soft and tender kisses against each area of skin revealed to him.

“If this be the only time I will ever be permitted to kiss you,” he whispered against your cheek, pressing a soft brush of his kiss-stricken lips atop the smooth area; his silken moustache scratching against the skin, “I won’t waste a single moment on words, Fledgling.” He pressed a slow and timid kiss against your lips, his eyes closed as he allowed himself this small tender moment to fall over him and onto you.

You shook your head into the kiss, arching your back against his torso to remove his latch on your lips. His strong arms held you firm, you feeling his arms grip you tighter in response.

“Mihawk,” you managed to utter, his name being the only thing to halt his advance at this stage. He fell his forehead against the base of your neck, feeling his dark curls tickle your chin, and his heavy breath fall against your chest.

“Forgive me, Fledgling,” he uttered, removing his hands from their grip beneath your thighs and placing them atop the marble beside your hips. He was not quite ready to fall away from your embrace, but did not want to push his luck further.

Gathering enough courage to finally break your confession through, the words flew from your mouth at lightning speed.

“My lord, it’s you. You were the reason I suffered in such a way. You were why I was pushing myself so hard in training. You were the reason I broke my body under your direction, daily. My lord,” you took his whiskered chin beneath your fingers and elevated his gaze to you. His eyes were glazed, pupils blown only a little while he held such sorrow behind their deep amber. You brought your hand up, tracing the manicured beard up and cradling his cheek within your palm, “It’s you.”

His eyes widened, reality of the situation finally dawning on him. The pin had dropped, finding below it’s descent a balloon of latex and puncturing it beneath its small prick. As a balloon would deflate from its air and dart all around the room with no rhyme nor reason, Mihawk began to place the pieces of the evening together.

“But the Hanahaki-,” his words were halted within his throat as he continued to place them together, “-was broken with my offhand confession.” He sighed deeply, shaking his head to rid itself of his own assumed stupidity.

You smiled at him, continuing to hold his face within your palm and take in a visual map of the man you had come to adore. Dark hair tussled, lips swollen and tinted with the bruising shade of red, great-cloak disheveled and hanging loosely over his shoulders - his bare chest more so exposed to you. He was so beautiful.

“I hold such a deep admiration for you, my lord Mihawk,” you shook your head as you brought your other hand up to his forehead and brushed his hair from shielding his face, “it fell into something deeper along the way. As the disease indicates, it has swelled into love. I love you.”

He sighed, leaning first into your palm before placing his forehead against yours. You both felt waves of emotion falling from the two of you in this one moment, both pausing to feel the rise and fall of one another’s breaths and the heat reverbing from your bodies’ proximities. He allowed himself one final moment before he spoke his own confession.

“I loved you from the moment you first came to me,” he drew his hand from its position on the counter and placed it over the middle of your chest, “your spirit was so strong. At first, I wanted to break you as punishment for drawing such weakness from me. But then,” he withdrew his forehead from yours and replaced his prior position with his lips, “I saw you soar.”

Withdrawing his lips from your head, he held such deep devotion in his eyes as he relayed his final words to you, “and that is why I love you.”

“Because I’m a glutton for punishment?” you quipped at him, withdrawing your eyes from its connection to his and falling to the pooling red wine and shattered glass on the floor.

“No,” he chuckled at you, hooking his index finger below your chin and pulling your gaze to return to him, “it’s because, Fledgling, you are not a fledgling at all.” You knit your brows in confusion, knowing that he gives names to all of his apprentices. Zoro, the rabbit. Perona, the ghost. You, the fledgling.

“If I am no fledgling,” you whispered, “then what am I to you?” He smiled deeper, his eyes crinkling up at the corners as he revealed a rare and intimate smile with you.

“You’re a Formel,” he whispered, “My Formel.” You laughed a breathy giggle at this new title, placing a small kiss against the whiskered chin below his lips.

“Does that make you my Tiercel, my lord?” you asked him after pulling away from his chin. He chuckled at you and offered you one final utterance.

“Only in private moments, Formel,” he cautioned you, “which I hope we are to share more of together.”

Mihawk broke away from your embrace and looked to the mess he’d made on the floor with the wineglass. As you were about to hop yourself down from your seated position against the marble countertop, a strong arm hooked its way beneath your knees while another steadied itself around your back. You squeaked in surprise as he lifted you up and began carrying you away from the mess to exit the kitchen. You looked at the puddle of wine and glass on the floor before turning back to your love carrying you. His expression was almost playful, with his signature flavor of arrogance cascading over his face and posture.

“I’ll have Zoro clean that up,” he grimaced, lips pulling up in a sneer, “a fitting punishment for kissing my Formel.”

“On your orders, sir,” you uttered in return. He hummed, leaning down to press a small kiss against your cheek as he continued walking you both away from the kitchen and into the halls.

[heartfullofleeches]

Scavenger Animal/Ghoul Darling. Just a hungry not so little critter who roams dumping sites of crime groups and killers for fresh meat to dig up once the coast is clear. Those who frequent the area notice disturbed earth upon revisiting and the corpses of their victims stripped of their flesh and organs. The bite marks are unlike any animal they've seen. The smart ones set up cameras while others preform stake outs to find whatever's digging up their dirty little secrets.

The threat comes to them with an offer of peace and their keys in exchange for not poisoning their victims anymore. Once the monster is revealed nobody can bare to part with them. Sure - they're a flesh eating nightmare, but we all have our faults. They're such an oddity it's almost cute in the eyes of those who watch them. Given their hunger for corpses they're quite useful with business too. More importantly they make a great lap pet and quite the cuddle bug when their new protector gets injured. They even try not to bite too hard

-

[Scavenger Reader hides from the town slasher, clutching their stomach as they shrink behind a half eaten body]

Scavenger Reader: no more poison.... tummy hurt :(

[Slasher Yan hangs their head in shame, brandishing their blade and slicing off their ring finger. They toss it to the scavenger who happy trails behind them to their truck.]

-

Scavenger Reader: Buffet night? :D

Yan Crime Boss, petting their head: Yes, sweetheart - it's buffet night. Eat as much as you want and we'll bag up the rest to take home

Scavenger Reader: Yay!

[The Crime Boss holds them close, smiling fondly as they look out the window at the building their men surround. They put out their phone]

Yan Crime Boss: Alright, no survivors. No witness. Drag the bodies to the front and have the doctor check their medical records. If they get another stomachache I will personally fry you all for them.

[majordemonblockparty]

also, on the subject of sam winchester's two canonical obsessions (serial killers and esoteric podcasts):

wouldn't it be funny if sam and jess met at like. true crime trivia night at their local dive bar. and they get put on the singles team with other people who came without an established trivia team, but it becomes pretty clear pretty quick that they're gonna be the stars of this show.

jess raised on a steady diet of pulp crime paperbacks and crime reporting television, who has all kinds of gory shit rattling around in her head, who can identify what hideous once-in-a-century murder is depicted in grainy grayscale crime scene photos in under thirty seconds, who can quote verbatim from over two dozen ransom notes, who's obsessed with people who disappeared mysteriously, never to be seen or heard from again. and sam, who's been raised... well, who's been raised the way he's been raised.

they get on like a house on fire. (the irony of that is lost on both of them.)

finally, somebody who doesn't think it's weird to have real theory about what happened to the sodder children, none of that sicilian mafia nonsense. someone who can speak intelligently about the prevalence of killings in national parks and protected forests. someone whose eye will snag on headlines like "couple found slain; county sheriff to hold conference today" and "charred corpse still unidentified" and flip through to find whatever column inches have been allotted to the day's worst happenings. someone who can name drop cold cases and milk carton kids like a memorized major league roster -- the boy in the box, the babes in the woods, the lyon girls, the des moines register newspaper boys; angie samota, bobby dunbar, alfred beilhartz, charley ross, dorothy ann distelhurst, everett ruess, glen and bessie hyde, marjorie west.

(jess who's so hyped to show sam an article she found about the twentieth anniversary of a mysterious fire where a young mother died and her two young children vanished, presumably with her husband in the aftermath. "isn't that crazy?" she tells him, brandishing a xerox, all cheshire-cat meet-in-the-back-of-her-head grin. "they had the same last name as you!"

"crazy," sam echos and stares down at the blurry black-and-white photo of a house he barely remembers.)

lifelong true crime junkie jessica moore and lifelong true crime victim sam winchester.

[cameronspecial]

I know we’re pass Halloween but I’ve had an idea.

Drew smut (only if your comfortable) where he and reader as a cute matching costume like Flynn and Rapunzel or daphne and Fred from scooby doo and they go to a party with all the cast members and he just can’t keep his hands to himself.

So when they finally get home they get freaky lol on the island in the kitchen and he lifts up her dress/skirt cause he can’t wait anymore and it’s so hot but cute.

Drewbie Doo, Where Are You?

Pairing: Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings: DARK SMUT and Swearing.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.6K

Masterlist

Y/N loves costume parties and dressing up for them. She always goes all out for them, coming up with creative spins on classic costumes. Like right now, Y/N and Drew are dressed up as Daphne and Fred, but with the twist that they are both serial killers. The idea came to her mind as she was looking through different costume inspirations and she saw a couple dressed as Ghostface and one of his victims. The girl’s white dress is stained red with the red handprint of her boyfriend and the idea stuck to Y/N. She knew Drew wanted to dress as Daphne and Fred, so she decided they could combine their two wants. This is how she finds herself giggling while Drew covers his hand in the fake blood she bought from the costume store. His hand rounds her body and brings it down to her bum. He gives her ass cheek a squeeze, causing her to let out a yip in surprise. He smirks down at her and brings his bloody hand to her cheek to smear some red on it. His hand brings her lips to his. They pull apart from each other and look at themselves in the mirror. 

The red of his handprint stands out against her purple long-sleeved dress, which she admires with a little wiggle of her butt. He lets out a chuckle at her action, giving her a small spank. She jumps forward a little bit and giggles, “Come on, we are going to be late for the party.” “Darling, I don’t know if we are going to make it to Madeline’s party with how your ass is brandishing my handprint on it. It shows everyone that you are mine,” he growls, pulling her in by the green scarf around her neck. She steps out of his reach and picks up her fake knife, “As much as I would love to stay home and let you fuck me. Madeline will kill us if we skip out on her party.” 

——

Everyone’s costumes looked stunning. Madison is wearing a fairy costume and Madeline appears to be dressed for the 1950s. Rudy seems to be the back half of a cow and Y/N can only guess that Elaine is the front half. Chase is dressed as Woody while JD is Buzz Lightyear. She spots Carlacia dressed as Barbie, talking to someone Y/N doesn’t recognize. Seeing other people’s costumes is one of Y/N’s favourite things about dress-up events. Squeals pull Y/N out of her observations and she turns her head to see Madeline running towards them. “You guys look so good, but you are late,” she scolds, twirling Y/N around to admire the costume. “You naughty girl. Is that Drew’s handprint?” Y/N’s head bows down and Drew brings her to his side by her waist. “Damn, right, it’s my handprint. Who else do you think it is?” he grumbles, resting his hand back down to her bum where the print is. 

“God, you are so possessive of her. Now, I know why you guys were late. You guys were probably having sex,” Madeline comments. “She wouldn’t let me,” he whispers under his breath as Madeline goes off to greet more guests. Y/N swats Drew’s chest, “Really? Did you have to say that?” 

——

Drew couldn’t keep his hands off of Y/N throughout the night. As she talks to the various castmates, Drew’s hands roam around her body, leaving a trail of fake blood all over her purple dress. He begs her to go home, whispering in her ear all the naughty things he wants to do with her. The final straw that breaks the camel's back is when she is standing in the kitchen and she is pouring herself a drink. Drew comes up from behind her, the strain of his dick pressing perfectly into the dip of her buttcrack. “Feel what you do to me, Darling? I could be making you feel so good right now,” he mutters into her ear. His hand moves up to her breast, staining the fabric of her dress as he cups it. She takes his wrist into hers and drags him out of Madeline’s house. 

——

They close the door in a frenzied kiss. It only gets locked when Drew begrudgingly pulls away from her. She is about to make her way to their bedroom, but he stops her by grabbing her wrist and bringing her to his chest. She lets him waddle them to the kitchen, where he pushes her hips into the counter. One of his hands keeps her pushed into the surface and his other goes to pull off the ascot from his neck. He takes both of her wrists in one hand, tying them together with his orange scarf. He shoves her back down onto the counter, so her elbows meet the cold granite and her wrists are in front of her. Drew's mouth meets the shell of her ear, “See if you had let us leave earlier in the night,  then you would have gotten sweet and passionate Drew. The Drew that lets you cum. But since you didn’t, you are going to take what I give you like the good little slut you are.”

She has to stop herself from moaning out at his words and the way his front is pressing up against her back. She knows her noise will only darken his mood if she lets them out without his permission. He knows she secretly loves it when he gets this way. Foreplay is not an option as he just needs to feel her walls close in around his dick. He unbuttons his pants and tugs his pants down just enough so he can pull himself out of his briefs. He doesn’t even wait to take her clothes off. He lifts the bottom of her dress just enough so that he can rip her thong off of her. She lets out a quiet gasp at the feeling of her underwear being torn off. 

He shushes her, kissing the back of her neck which is exposed by her hair falling to one shoulder. His tip finds her pussy and he gives her no time to process it before he slams into her. She can’t adjust to his size because he begins his harsh thrusts at an unforgiving pace. Luckily, she is already wet enough from their party antics to lessen the friction. She tries her best to keep quiet as he brings his dick in and out of her. “Go on, Darling. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel,” Drew orders, pulling at the scarf around her neck so that her back presses against his chest. She obeys his command, crying out about how much she loves his cock. His pace keeps going and she feels like he is trying to fuck her into the kitchen island. His lips find their way to her neck. He nibbles a hickey on her skin, loving the melody coming out of her mouth. He can feel her tightened walls around him. He lets out a low laugh, “Tell me you're sorry for not letting us stay home. Tell me we should’ve stayed home and let me fuck you like a good girl. And then maybe I’ll let you cum.” 

His hips have stopped moving and he is still inside of her while he waits for her pleas. She tries to bring his hand up to her throat, but she forgets her hands are tied. He smirks down at her attempts and brings his big hands around her throat, squeezing gently around it. Knowing he will love to hear her breathy voice, she calls out, “I’m sorry for being a whore and not letting us stay home because I wanted everyone to see me in my slutty costume. I’m sorry you didn’t let you have sex with me sooner.” 

His dick twitches inside of her at her words and he knows he doesn’t have long to make her climax before him. His forceful thrust picks up again and the hand around her neck goes to her clit. He starts rubbing her bud in quick circles. Her moans and his groans mix with the slapping of their skin and they are slowly being brought to the edge. Her bound hands reach above her to the other side of the island, so she has something to grip as her pussy swallows Drew in a tighter hold. She orgasms with a scream of his name and he follows soon after her. His cum shoots into her in ropes as he fucks her through their high. He collapses onto her, smushing her breasts against the granite. His head falls to wear he bites a hickey into her skin and kisses up and down her neck. His hands reach up to untie his orange scarf from her wrist. She brings her wrist over her shoulder so he can kiss the forming bruises. He slowly slips his flaccid penis out of her, bringing her up to stand straight. She turns around in his arms and rests her head on his chest. The thump of his heartbeat starts to slow down. 

His lips find her temple, “I hope I wasn’t too hard on you, Darling. I know you didn’t use our safeword, but I didn’t even eat you out first.” She shakes her head against him and kisses the exposed part of his chest. “No, Baby. It was perfect. Like you,” she mumbles, still a little groggy from her release. His fingers run through her hair, “Good. I love you, Darling.”

“I love you too, Baby.”

Taglist: @loves0phelia

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Cherry Pie Kiss

Slice Two

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: Out on the hunt, out of state and out of options; with your life on the line, Dean makes a call you're not happy with. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, he brings a peace offering.

Haven't read Part One? - Catch up here.

Words: ~3.5k

A/N: This is part 2 of 3 of what started as a short one shot, but someone asked for another slice of pie so I'm here to deliver. There isn't any smut in this part (its all going to be in part 3 😂) but there are graphic depictions of gore, violence and death which is why I ask minors not to read or interact. Reader is female but generic, and obviously has feelings but is kind of stuck in this hate to love him type thing which carries on from part 1. I hope you enjoy the read and are ready for the goonfest and gratuitous smut coming in part 3.

Warnings: gore, death and gruesome depictions of canon-type violence, profanity as standard for my work, bit of angst, bit of fluff right at the end.

***Minor do not read or interact***

Dean Winchester.  You hate him.  His saviour complex, his unwavering strength, the way he’s so damn selfish though not in the ways that count… But boy, can he wear a pair of jeans.  Phew-ee!

You hate that you can’t stop looking at him, leaning on the jukebox of the bar you’re in, feeding it quarters in exchange for some feel-good tunes.  Ugh!  Asshole!

Tonight had been a tough night.  Even Sam was feeling the burn.  Out on the hunt, out of state and out of options, the three of you had played a Hail Mary and it had paid off.  Those damn vamps had just kept on coming.  Sam was down and you were in a bad way with what felt like a hoard of those fuckers piling into the abandoned factory to make a meal out of you all.  Starting out, you had all been so sure that you had this little group in the bag but, as per usual with these goddamn things, the plan didn’t pan out.

Dean had dragged you and a semi-conscious Sam into a tight space between the machines.  One way in, one way out.  You were both toast if you were found and of course you would be found; the vamps had your scent.

Groggily, you watched dean uncoil something from his pocket and string it across the opening at about neck height.

“Guitar string.”  He winked at you as if this idea was the best idea he had ever had and should have been plan A from the start.

“We’re fucking bait?”  You hissed furiously.  No, surely not?  Dean would never use his brother as bait.  Would he?  “Goddamn asshole!”  You snarled with as much vitriol you could muster between your gasping breaths and painful ribs.

He just gave you that weary look he had been wearing for the past hour and shrugged his shoulders before pulling out his machete and hiding himself out of sight.  “Get ready.”

You brandished your blade and hauled yourself to your feet, ready to fight.  There was no point wasting any more breath insulting him.  If you got out of this alive, you would have plenty of opportunity to call him all the names under the sun.  IF you got out alive.

The first vamps that found you came rushing in, right down the tight alley framed by the large machinery and with a sharp twang, Dean’s trap garrotted them straight through, taking their heads clean off.  Of the next three, the wire took the first two but the third approached cautiously despite you calling him to come get you.

Dean ran out from his hiding place and attacked the vamp from behind, slashing at the guy’s thick neck twice in order to cut all the way through.  As the body fell you saw why the vamp had stopped – the trap had remnants of flesh and blood along it from its previous victims making it easier to see.  You wiped your sleeve along it to clean the bits of hanging flesh off making it almost invisible again. Dean gave you an impressed nod.

Another two vamps fell to the wire but the last one got snagged as she fell, snapping it and making it useless.  Well, it was a good idea while it lasted, you thought.

It took you two a little while longer to attract the remaining few vamps who obviously knew something was up.  Sam was in no fit state, still groaning on the ground.  You were weak and in a lot of pain but you kept swinging your blade, struggling to breathe let alone stand.

The fight had been brutal and both you and Dean were covered in blood by the time it was over.  You were on your knees, slumped over a vamp you had had to hack into to remove the head, your blade surely blunt by now.  You were ready to close your eyes and give up when Dean pulled you to your feet.

“C’mon,” he said gruffly, “up and at’em.”  Helping you out over the pile of decapitated bodies, he hauled a now mostly conscious Sam through the mess.

You had made it to the Impala and, for once, Dean hadn’t grumbled about getting blood on Baby’s seats but throwing a couple blankets down instead.  Sam slumped in the front while you crawled in the back, weary and sore.  Your eyes met Dean’s in the rearview mirror but yours flicked away immediately, unable to look at him without getting angry.  When you looked back so did he, like he knew you’d be looking, and held on, asking if you were okay without actually asking.  If he really cared he wouldn’t have used you as bait.

You let your head fall back onto the seat and closed your eyes frustrated by his dichotomy.

After a while on the road, Dean turned the radio on, breaking the silence which opened the door for you to say what was on your mind.  Sam hadn’t been bothered one bit by the fact that Dean had used you both as bait, but you were furious.

“It worked, didn’t it?”  Dean snapped, frustrated by your anger.

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and a whole long list of other people.  Aint nothin’ new.”

Around five miles out of Crocker, Missouri, Dean pulled into a truck stop complex which had a convenience store, gas station, diner, a small motel and a dive bar.  The dawn was still hours away and the need for a couple of hours sleep in a comfortable bed was showing on all three of you.  Sam was the cleanest so he made the arrangements; two rooms because there was no way you were sharing a room with that asshole after what he did.  You were just as likely to fuck him out of anger as fight him at that point.

You used the showers in the truck stop to clean off all the blood and get into some clean clothes, relishing in the feel of the warm water and decent water pressure.  You felt a slight pang of guilt that someone would likely be picking vamp chunks out of the drain in the next couple of days but it passed quickly, it probably wasn’t the worst thing these truck stop attendants had seen over the years.

Refreshed by the shower and a take-out burger from the diner, you decided you needed a drink or five, which sounded good to Sam and Dean – you all deserved it.

So, here you are, several drinks in, pounding another tequila shot, trying not to stare at Dean Winchester’s ass while Sam bids you goodnight and takes himself off to one of the two rooms you had paid for at the run-down motel on site.

It seems as if you’re not the only one with an eye for a firm ass in tight Wranglers; a scantily clad barfly sidles up to Dean and strokes her hand down his back as he plugs his final song into the jukebox.  When her hand reaches that ass of his, he straightens and turns, grinning at her with that look you know means he’s going to ride her all the way to dawn.

You can’t watch this.  You don’t have the stomach for it, not tonight.  You pound your remaining two shots and eat the lime slice, peel and all.  Then you’re up off your stool and pushing past Dean and his lady friend, and out into the night where the air cools your heated skin but not your confusing emotions.

In the second of the two rooms, you look at your bruised face and neck in the mirror.  No wonder he didn’t look twice at you, you’re a mess.  It shouldn’t pain you like it does to think of him with another woman.  He asked once and you said no, so that is the end of that.  Plus, you hate him, can’t forget that.  Still, it gives you some small satisfaction that he now has no empty room to take his new friend to so he’ll have to bang her in Baby, on the bloody blankets.  With a spiteful smirk you flop on the bed and fall into a light disturbed sleep.

A loud knock on the door wakes you up with a start.  At first you don’t know where you are.  So used to your room in the bunker, you had almost forgotten what it feels like to sleep that first night in a new place, never truly resting for fear of attack.  It’s only an hour or so since you left the bar and you’re groggy from the tequila and from the waking.

You don’t turn on the lights when you go to the peephole, looking out with your pistol muzzle pushed up against the flimsy wood door.  Dean sways on the other side, his head turned as though he’s listening.

“Sam’s in the other room,” you call, clicking the safety back onto your pistol.

“I know,” he grumbles, “open up.  I got something.”

“It can wait until the morning.”

“Can’t wait,” it sounds muffled, “owwww!” he hisses.

“What the hell,” you sigh, sliding the chain and turning the handle.

Dean stumbles in with his mouth shaped like an “O” as he slides two bowls onto the unit next to the TV, shaking his hands afterwards as if burned.  You close the door and engage the chain out of habit.

“Got you something.”  He grins goofily, obviously much more drunk than you had left him in the bar, and you wonder what happened to the barfly.  Surely the womanizing Dean Winchester hadn’t banged and dropped her in that short a time?

“It’s two in the morning, Dean.”  You wipe a hand down your tired face, lifting your eyes again to see him handing you one of the bowls from the diner.

“Peace offering.”  He says with a smile as he pushes the hot ceramic into your hands, his eyes glistening with mirth and the effects of all the whiskey he shot back earlier.

You look at what he brought you and your heart almost stops.  It’s a steaming hot piece of cherry pie, drizzled in a large puddle of vanilla custard just the way you like it.  You look at his, with his tiny dollop of cream just the way he likes it, and you can’t help but smile.

“Why?”  You ask as you sit on the edge of the bed with him in the chair by the TV, the bowl in your hand, spoon loaded with goodness.

He finishes chewing a piece of the hot pie, sucking in air to cool it in his mouth before he replies.  “I know you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you admit too quickly but the words are out now whether he believes them or not.

“And I know it’s my fault,” he looks at you with those eyes, “I shouldn’t have made things awkward from day one.  So, I’m sorry about that.”

“Thank you.”  You never thought you would ever hear Dean Winchester apologise, or what you would say in return.

“I didn’t know how to take the rejection,” he sighed heavily, “especially not from someone I have this amazing chemistry with, y’know?  But that’s on me.”

What great chemistry did Dean think he had with you?  All the years you had known him, you’d harboured a bit of a crush on him but he always acted like you were one of the guys.  When you two crossed paths it had felt effortless to slip into the old camaraderie but he treated you like a sister, a fellow hunter, until you had shown up on his radar this time covered in blood and all kinds of messed up and he’d gotten all pissed and… ohhhh.

“You were right all those years ago when you said hunters shouldn’t get close,” he continues, “I should’ve listened and never asked that question.”

You remember the conversation clearly.  It was something you had said because you thought it was what he wanted to hear from you.  Younger and more naïve, you had thought that what he wanted was for you to be like one of the guys so you had said the words and hoped that you could remain where you were with him, always close but never at risk of blowing everything.  Over time you had begun to regret that decision, and as soon as he started acting like an asshole it had been easy to trade the feelings you had for ones of resentment.

“I wish I never said it.  I didn’t realise what I would be losing when I asked.”   He looks at you again, beseechingly.  “Do you think we can start again?  Be friends like before?”

You think about it for a moment but the more you think the surer you are that you can’t go back.  You can’t know these things and have these experiences and go back to the beginning.

“No, Dean, I don’t think we can.”  Your words are soft but the devastation in his eyes is sharp and painful.

You stand, placing your untouched bowl on the bedside table, and walk towards him.  His bowl is empty now, but there’s a little piece of pie left on his spoon when you take it from him.  He’s confused but follows your every movement with a mixture of sadness and reverence.

The pie is sweet on your tongue and the way his eyebrows raise when your lips close around the spoon brings a cheeky glint to your eyes.  You sit on his knee, wrapping one arm around his shoulders while the other pulls the now clean spoon past your lips.  You swallow with a sigh.  His hands go to your hip and thigh to steady you as he looks up at you.

You dip your head slowly and he tilts up to meet you, his eyes flicking between yours and your mouth.  He tastes sweet just like you do when you lay your lips on his, a soft kiss that is both the testing of waters and the soothing of sharp emotions.  He squeezes your thigh tighter for a brief moment and you pull back to see the questioning look on his face.

“But you said…”

You shush him with a finger laid over his lips.  “I know what I said.”

“Then what did you mean?”  He swallows hard, licking his lips nervously afterwards as if you’re about to pull the rug out from under him.

“I wish I’d said yes.”

[publicenemy212]

Filthy (Lute x fem!sub!reader)

Warnings: smut, dubcon, descriptions of violence, fingering, gagging, choking, knifeplay, degradation, sadomasochism dynamics

crossposted from AO3 under public_enemy_212. requests open for any hellaverse wlw pairings or f!reader

word count: 1280

NSFW under the cut

“You disgust me.”

The angel’s voice hissed, mere inches away from my ear. I groaned in response, my lips sticky and wet with my own blood. Her gloved hand grasped my hair with enough force to make me feel like my scalp was ripping off. Perhaps, at that point, that was the only thing keeping my eyes open. Without warning, she threw my face towards the pebbled alleyway ground.

My skull cracked on impact. The world faded to nothing, but only for a moment. Curse my new body and its resilience.

Sharp pain exploded in my chest as the exorcist sent a flying kick directly at my chest. I whimpered in agony and helplessness.

“Aww, does that hurt?” she purred mockingly. “The little sinner’s regretting her choices now?”

With effort, I painstakingly lifted my head off the filth-stained dirt to face the angel. All I could see was a blur of white and gray against the dark red background of Pentagram City. Extermination Day was almost over. I just had to survive until then.

I opened my mouth to speak and immediately fell into a coughing fit. Fresh blood splattered out, painting the concrete crimson. Hacking and spluttering for another minute, I forced out my words.

“Y-yes, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please—”

I heaved again. Fuck. The angel clicked her tongue impatiently as she stood with arms crossed, watching me vomit up more internal bleeding.

So much pain. So much pain. Hurts. Everything hurts.

I fell over onto my side again, groaning and panting for air.

“Are you done?”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, you’re wasting your time with me…” I rasp weakly. 

If pleading for my life wouldn’t work, I might as well try sucking up to her ego.

I prayed to God, Satan, whoever would listen; if only the exterminator would just move on to find other victims and leave me alone.

To my dismay, she only began to laugh.

Despair washed over my broken body. Was there no end to this torture?

“Wasting my time? No, no. I’ve already killed my fair share of your filthy kind. Now, it’s my turn to have a bit more fun by making you suffer slowly before I eventually kill you too.”

A sob bubbled out of my bloodied throat. I crumbled to the ground once more.

“Lute. Remember this name. It’s the last thing you’ll hear before you die.”

Something flipped inside me as all the pain and terror suddenly turned into indignancy and rage. Gritting my teeth, I summoned all my willpower to drag myself up. Glaring, I snarled, “You call yourself an angel? After making thousands of souls suffer and die a second death, as if dying once wasn’t enough?”

“It’s what you sinners deserve.” Lute brandished her sword, as if challenging me to take another step forward.

I was walking into a certain death, that I was sure of. But she was going to kill me regardless; why not try to fight back?

Claws out, I lunged forward unsteadily. In response, the angel flew forward at an inhuman speed and chokeslammed me directly into a wall. I scrabbled helplessly at her grip.

Lute roared with sadistic laughter.

Leaning closer, she whispered, “Can’t speak? Devil got your tongue?”

Fighting my survival instincts, I let go of her fingers around my neck…

…and sent my fist flying towards her face.

The blow landed squarely, shattering the glass of the exorcist mask.

“FUCK!” Lute screamed in shock. The surprise loosened her grip, allowing me to breathe only slightly more easily for a second. She ripped off the broken helmet with one hand and tossed it aside, using the same hand to punch me in the jaw.

I grinned at her distress. So it was possible to get under these exorcist angels’ skin. I decided, for my own cynical entertainment, to take it a step further.

“There is no way you don’t get off to this,” I croaked.

Lute growled in frustration. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

Her eyes flicked to the entryway of the dingy alley. No one was watching. The only sounds were the occasional distant screaming and the sound of my pained moaning and wheezing.

Her golden eyes slid back to the demon under her control, narrowing as she gritted her teeth.

She leaned in and kissed me with a fervor reminiscent of a starved animal. Her hand slackened again, her body pressing against mine. My blood smeared on her soldier’s uniform, mixing with the various splatters of her other, unluckier victims from earlier in the day. When we finally broke, gasping for air, Lute let go of my neck and stepped back. She drew her saber once more and pressed it against my bruised throat.

I whimpered and pressed my legs together, desperate to relieve the growing need between my thighs.

Lute was absolutely taken aback and scowled in disgust at my reaction.

“ Filthy. ”

Yet, against her own venom-laced words, her other hand slid down my body. 

“ Worthless .”

Two fingers pressed against my cunt.

My eyes screwed shut. I didn’t even know what I was feeling anymore. Pain from my injuries mixed with lust and pleasure at the angel’s ghosting touch. Oh, agony. Pure, sweet agony.

“...Are you serious? Does beat within an inch of your life turn you on that much?”

With that, she shoved her fingers into my mouth. I gagged at the sudden intrusion while she continued to finger-fuck my mouth with no breaks, generously coating her hand with my saliva and blood. Once she was satisfied, she drew her hand out and slapped me so hard my eyeballs shook in my skull. I moaned loudly and Lute immediately smacked her palm back over my mouth.

“Shut the fuck up before somebody finds us.” She hissed dangerously.

Once she was sure no other angels were coming, she sighed and returned her attention to me. Lute ripped off a chunk of my tattered clothes and shoved it in my mouth as a makeshift gag. 

Her hand then returned to my pants, sliding beneath the fabric and between my slick folds. She wasted no time in dipping right into my hole, using three fingers immediately without giving me any time to adjust. I yelped in pain, but the gag muffled any words I had. Lute grinned and leaned directly next to my ear.

“What’s the problem? It hurts? This is your punishment for going against Heaven, so you better fucking take it.”

Drool and tears collected at my chin, mixing together before dripping to the ground. My body threatened to lose consciousness with each brutal thrust. My head fell forward and landed on Lute’s armored shoulder as I continued to babble incoherently, the exorcist pushing me for orgasm after orgasm with no mercy. Only after I finally passed out from the sheer exhaustion of hours of getting fucked up and being straight up fucked did she pull out and toss my limp body aside.

Much to my disappointment, I woke up again to Lute kicking me repeatedly.

“Hey. Get up.”

Her boot pushed my head face-up to check if I was conscious. I stared at her, bleary-eyed. “You’re still alive? Huh. That works for me. I want you to watch me kill you.”

A flash of light. Warm liquid started gushing out of my chest. I looked down slowly to see the divine metal sunken halfway through my chest. Lute then yanked her blade out effortlessly and walked away without a word, leaving me to bleed out in a pool of my blood and cum.

The siren signaling the end of this year’s Extermination Day was the last thing I heard before eternal darkness swallowed me whole.

[see-arcane]

Lucy and Jonathan

“We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not already engaged to Jonathan.”

I’ll admit, while it probably wasn’t anything more than an airy throw-in without any real barbs behind it, the inflection on Lucy’s comment followed by the idle advertisement of upcoming character, Dr. John ‘Jack’ Seward, as a higher-up-the-ladder ‘what-if’ prospect, still kind of stung to hear. I know it’ll get sanded back in later chapters because—minor spoilers—context clues will show that Mina, Lucy, and Jonathan have known/been friendly with each other since they were kids, and comments from future letters will show a more mutual regard. So it makes me wonder what the reason for the implied derision was.*

*(Beyond her possibly trying to push Jack in a way that says ‘Nope, No, I Choose Not to See the Crush, No Thank You, Hot Potato.’)

My guess? It’s a bit.

Specifically, a holdover from hers, Mina’s, and Jonathan’s earlier days when all of them had grown into adolescence, social mores started getting hammered in in earnest, and Mina and Jonathan were just starting on their official courtship.

Suddenly, they’re no longer a trio of kids enjoying each other’s company. Now it’s two young ladies—one rich, one poor—and a charming young man—also from a lower class. Considering the period, it would be only too easy for whispers to start flying behind fans and cigars that the young Mr. Harker might consider leveling up his prospects, or that the lovely Miss Westenra, a veritable Victorian Helen of Troy, might idly snatch her low-born friend’s man out from under her nose on a whim. And aren’t they such a pretty picture? Quoting their Shakespeare at each other, so intriguingly close compared to most men and their ladies’ friends…unless there are certain extra friendly circumstances involved, ha ha.

A ribald comment too many from coworkers at Hawkins’ firm and a backhanded compliment or three at the latest spring ball probably shocked Jonathan and Lucy respectively into action. Bonus points if one of the inciting remarks came from some tittering debutante, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You two are so alike! Such sweet bonny things, parroting the Bard at each other, prattling merrily about the latest little outing without stopping for breath. Really, Lucy, he would just do for you.”**

**(Some have wondered if Lucy was nudging Jack toward Mina due to certain similar traits they shared. Some morose aspects, intensely focused, interests in modern technology. You’ll see when you meet him. Either way, it’s another parallel to ponder here.)

Cue Mina having to endure her loved ones defending her honor from being dubbed a victim of romantic betrayal in the most vaudeville manner possible. Though she should expect no less from Theatre Nerds 1 and 2.

When they go out, Mina is permanently sandwiched between them as if they’re ducking behind a red-faced shield. Lucy brandishes a parasol to ensure they’re at least the shaft’s length apart; sometimes she’ll even open it to make sure they’re not swayed by looking upon each other, may Heaven forbid such scandalous temptation! Jonathan sits on the bench with them with his hat pulled down over his eyes for safety’s sake. At least a quarter of an hour at the start of each outing is dedicated to a back-and-forth of:

Lucy, nose up so high she’s looking more at the ceiling than him: Mr. Harker.

Jonathan, checking his pocket watch to see how long he must endure this most arduous company: Miss Westenra.

Mina, head in her hands: It’s been months.

Lucy, scoffing: Months of torment in his presence.

Jonathan, scoffing harder: Agony in hers.

Lucy, on a fainting couch: However can you stand him, Mina?

Mina, about to pull her hair out of its pins: You helped him pick out the ring, Lucy.

Jonathan, picture of woe: Tormentedly, of course.

Lucy, nodding: Agonizingly.

In short, Jonathan 🤝 Lucy:

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Polish and Shine (Supernatural One-Shot)

Sam Winchester x GN!Reader / requests are open

Summary: Sam chews on his nails a lot. Too much. You come up with a plan to break the habit.

Fic type: comfort, fluff

CW: this lil fic contains mentions of Sam wanting to explore his gender : ) not much, just mentions of him enjoying feeling feminine (please be gentle with me, this one has a lil piece of me in it).

SPN: @wereallbrokenangels @nervoussystemss (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It's not something you noticed a lot at first. To be quite honest, your social awareness wasn't the best, and looking at people head-on was something you struggled with even after you got to know someone.

But you did start noticing it. It seemed that he did it more at night when it was just him and his thoughts and the big dark room lit up only by his laptop at the table. On a side note, he was going to ruin his eyesight if he kept that up.

But he also did it in the Impala, or after a disturbing interview, or even just when Dean was late back from some girl or guy's place he picked up at the bar.

Chewing his nails... Sam was always chewing on his nails. You understood why, of course. It was an anxiety thing. A stress thing. You'd be lying if you said you didn't fall victim to the same impulse sometimes, but the amount of nail-chewing was starting to worry you.

It had gotten so bad that Dean had started slapping at Sam's hand if he noticed him raising it towards his mouth, one hand on the wheel and his eyes piercing warning daggers into Sam's soul as he pointed at him accusatorially. A silent "stop it right now before I turn Baby around."

It only stopped him from doing it so much on the road. Less so anywhere else. You'd been keeping a quiet eye on Sam the last few days, watching him chew his nails back to the skin. Irritating the skin and the keratin so much that it was probably hurting him. You weren't even sure what was worrying him so much.

You'd been brainstorming ideas to help him with the impulse for a few days until it finally came to you one morning when you were making a med-kit run- stocking up on all the things you all would definitely need at one point or another.

Nail polish. Of course! You'd picked up a couple different colours- given they were all out of transparent along with your bandages, iodine and Betadine and headed back to the motel of the day.

Sam had looked at the bottles in your hand with a raised brow when you brandished them. He picked one up, twirled it around and set it down on the counter.

"Do you want me to paint your nails for you or something?" He asked. Now, you couldn't say that wasn't appealing and that you weren't keen on that idea, because you were, but that was not the purpose of this little exercise.

"Maybe later, Sam. I got them for you-"

"For me?" He cut you off with one of those little huffy laughs he was so good at. You pulled a chair out and sat down, setting the bag on the counter and grabbing one of the bottles.

"Yes, for you," you reiterated, reaching for one of his hands. Sam allowed you to take it and take a look at the abused fingers. "Look, I- I've noticed you chew your nails a lot- and this looks like it hurts. I know Dean wants you to stop, and I imagine you'd also like to break the habit, yes?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, averting his eyes from your warm gaze.

"Yes," was his soft reply. You nodded, giving his hand a squeeze.

"This might help you break the habit. Plus, you'll look super pretty."

Sam snorted. His eyes darted back to look at you, and you really saw how shy and vulnerable he was feeling at that moment. It made you want to wrap him up and keep him safe.

"So, they didn't have clear," you explained, voice soft as if trying not to spook a deer. Or a moose, you supposed, in this case. "But I got you a few colours to choose from. Which one takes your fancy?"

You know exactly what he's going to pick before he does it. The forest-green. He hands you the vial and you let go of his hand to shake it up and unscrew the cap.

Sam sits patiently for you while you work, occasionally clearing his throat or giving you a quick smile. It doesn't take long, only a few minutes. Let it dry, then another coat. Let that dry. Done.

"There, all done," you exclaim, leaning back and stretching your back so it pops nicely. "Very nice, very nice," you approve. Sam fans his fingers out and juts his lower lip out thoughtfully.

"You know- I kinda like it," he blinked as though the discovery shocked him. "Can I do yours next?"

And so began a tradition. Once a fortnight you'd both paint each other's nails. Dean even got into it after a few weeks, getting his own done, too. Sam had been worried at first that Dean would make fun of him for his nails, but the only thing Dean had said after he returned toting beer and Chinese food was "nice choice, Sammy" as he cracked a beer and propped his feet up.

Sam continued to chew on his nails for a bit. It was a learning curve, after all, but he did end up slowing down and eventually stopping completely. You hadn't mentioned to Sam that he'd stopped just in case he hadn't realised, but you and Dean had shared a beer over the silent victory. And when Sam brought the victory to you both a few days after that, all three of you shared a beer then, too.

You and Sam continued to wear different shades and Sam even learned to put the polish on himself, though he vastly preferred you to put it on for him. Considered a bonding moment, which was cute. Dean would participate occasionally, and eventually, Sam admitted that he liked how feminine the polish made him feel.

After that- things sort of migrated from just nail polish to brushing his hair and experimenting with colour in his wardrobe. That was all he was really comfortable with for now, but that wasn't a problem. You were just glad he felt comfortable enough to share such personal information with you.

You both loved each other so much, and one of the best things about found family was that you knew you would be pillars of support for each other.

No matter what.

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬.

diluc is hopeless with grocery shopping. luckily, a kind stranger is more than willing to step in and help.

✦ info: diluc has no idea what he's doing and neither does the author, modern au, strangers to lovers kinda, possibility of ooc-ness, grammar mistakes may be present, there is absolutely no logic here, 2k+ words.

✦ warnings: none.

✦ notes: well, it's this fic again! thought i'd repost it because i'm in the middle of working on a sequel. though with my time management please don't expect it to be posted anytime soon lmao (and don't worry! i still have the original taglist saved.)

would it be far fetched to call grocery shopping an art? and to call one able to navigate the labyrinthine aisles efficiently nothing short of a master? 

perhaps it would be. 

though, if it was an art, you'd be but a mediocre artist. not horribly unskilled, but no one would be in awe of your nonexistent prowess at brandishing coupons at cash registers. 

you shake your thoughts away. what are you thinking? who made you so eloquent in the middle of aisle seven? you ask yourself, gaze scanning the various items on the shelves. focus on your groceries, dummy.

okay, let's see, now. you stop in the middle of the condiments aisle, recollecting the items you need.  ah yes, ketchup and mayo. hmm, where would they be? 

aha! you see two familiar bottles on the second shelf, and you carefully place them in your cart. a glass jar with a green label and a red lid catches your eye. chili paste? you consider your potential purchase. eh, i'll get it. it's on sale.   

now, let's get some rice.

you round the corner to get to the grain aisle when you see a man, clad in a brown coat and incredibly polished shoes, with hair so red you'd think his head was on fire, just. glaring. at a bag of rice. you sneak a glance at him, wondering if the rice had wronged him in some manner.

deciding to ignore him, you pick up a five kilogram bag, then heave it into your trolley. and as you prepare to push it with the extra weight, you spy the man picking up the exact same bag, brand, weight and all. huh.

thinking nothing of it, you continue on your merry way, hoping to get your shopping done as quickly as possible, assuming that it'd be the last you'd ever see of the man.

but it appears fate had other plans. you spot him once again in the canned foods aisle, glaring at another innocent, harmless grocery item. the victim this time, you ask? a can of baked beans. 

you throw another sideways look at him, lightly tapping the pads of your fingers against the handles of your trolley. who even is this guy? you silently watch as he picks up the same brand you've put in your cart moments before. ah, he was probably just confused.

however, you’re still a little concerned about the man. does a grown man truly not know what he's doing in a grocery store? you scan the shelves for a random item, and your eyes land on a can of baby food. a light bulb goes off in your head, and you decide to test something. quickly, you grab two of them.

you open your mouth the second after he moves to get the same thing. “can i help you, sir?” he freezes at the sound of your voice, hand halfway between his body and the shelf with the exact thing you just picked up, baby food in hand. you raise an eyebrow, "are you aware of what you're buying?" 

he sheepishly rakes his hand through his hair and shakes his head. "i'm afraid i'm not." he clears his throat, color beginning to creep up his neck. 

you grin at him. “check the label on the can.” you watch as this giant of a man turns the can around, and slowly turns into a human stop sign with the way his face blazes. you know you probably shouldn’t find the sight of the man with such an intimidating expression turning to a flustered mess so adorable. 

“my apologies,” he clears his throat again, then rubs the back of his neck, eyes averted. “i’ve never been shopping before.” he sets the can back, refusing to meet your eyes.

“oh, don't tell me.” you tease, lightheartedly. “is it a case of a rich boy living on his own for the first time, without anyone to do things for him?”

the look on his face answers for him. his eyebrows nearly climb to his hairline, and he blinks. you laugh, incredibly surprised at your assumption being true. “in that case, let me help.” you hold out your hand, taking pity on the man. “do you have a list?”

he fishes out a hastily scribbled list from the depths of one of his coat pockets that simply says bread, milk. 

sigh. “it seems i have my work cut out for me.” you take a gander at the items in his cart and spot the rice, the beans, along with three varieties of bread and a two liter bottle of milk. well, at least he got the items on his list.

you pick up the bottle, skimming over the other details to find the production and expiry dates. “just out of curiosity, did you check the dates on the milk?” 

he slowly shakes his head. “i figured as much.” you gesture to the numbers, and motion for him to take a look. “this expires in two days. i doubt you’ll be able to finish the whole thing by then, so you should probably find a bottle with a more recent production date.”

—

if there ever was a god of grocery shopping, diluc ragnvindr would be the bane of his existence. 

why were these stupid stores so confusing? why were there so many brands of everything? why in the hell were there so many types of oranges? and these trolleys, good lord. just why were they so difficult to maneuver?

all the aisles blend into each other, and all diluc can do is stare emptily at each product he finds, unable to make a decision. 

he'd have better luck finding his way around if he was randomly dropped in a venetian calle.

diluc has no idea what he's doing— in the store, at home, even in life. 

living on his own for the first time since his dad passed away, in an apartment much tinier than the lavish mansion he was used to, struggling to keep his head above water, the young ragnvindr only knew ingredients once they'd been taken home and properly organized in containers and shelves. 

he'd rather the world not see him fumbling, though. so he decides to do the only logical thing one can do in his situation. he picks a person and does exactly what they do. 

after all, when one is in rome, do they not do as the romans do?

in hindsight, he should've just researched online. he should have decided his purchases earlier. or ordered the damn groceries online. because then he'd be able to avoid the embarrassment of being tricked with a can of baby food. 

baby food, of all things! why couldn't it be something a little more dignified? 

he watches you quickly replace the offending item on the shelves and push your cart in another direction before he could react. “come on, then. off to the dairy section we go.”

not wanting to be left behind in this headache inducing location, he hurriedly pushes his trolley too in an attempt to keep up with you. kaeya would never let me live that down, he thinks as he does. 

with a pang, he shoves down the memory of his brother as far and as deep as he can, choosing to focus on the present, lest he end up in another spiral.

you lead him to milk he was supposed to get, and he watches you carefully as you examine the dates on the bottles for him. moments later, you beckon him close with a curl of your palm. leaning slightly, he peers over your shoulder. 

“always try to get the one most recently produced,” you tell him, and he nods. he follows the movement of your finger tapping your chin, clearly pondering. his gaze travels a bit higher, and as he sees your lips move, he realizes that he completely missed what you were saying.

“pardon?” he stumbles ungracefully on the initial sound. 

“what's your favorite fruit?” you repeat. “that'll be first on our list on what to get for you.”

his favorite fruit? he didn't think he had one. “peaches,” he blurts, finding himself unwilling to disappoint you with his lack of proper response, his eyes falling on a peach milkshake drink. 

his ears note your change in tone, voice turning excited. “oh, they're one of my favorites too!” warmth engulfs his gloved hand and he finds himself being dragged to the produce section. 

“what about the trolleys?” he asks, mind still reeling from the sudden hand grabbing on your part.

you wave off his concerns. “oh, they'll be fine parked to the side.” you all but drag him to the peach display. “now, pay close attention, okay?”

as if he needed you to tell him that. “i'm listening,” he says. 

you pick up a peach with bruising. “when you're sorting through peaches, look for the ones with no blemishes. they don't spoil as fast. same with apples and pears and such.” now this, he knew. but he still nods along, a picture-perfect student. he sees your eyes and wonders how anyone's could be so gorgeous.

later, he dutifully nods a little more as you explain the specifics of choosing potatoes. 

“the potatoes should be firm, and there should be no signs of green,” 

should he be taking notes? he stamps the involuntary urge to hunt for a notepad in one of his pockets down, deciding he did not want to embarrass himself any more in front of you.

you seemed to glow even under the unflattering light around you, hair lit by it as you tell him about how to look for the right cauliflowers and broccoli. 

how could someone look so ethereal while standing next to onions? 

diluc ragnvindr. get. a. grip. they're only talking about vegetables. 

you ask him to tell you the price of the eggs while you sort through carrots for both him and yourself. he walks over a couple of yards, carefully examines the label and returns to report the number. 

“that much?!” you eyes widen. “my goodness, that should be considered robbery!”

...was it? he thought it was a reasonable price for a carton of eggs. still, he blindly agrees. you smile, having caught on to the fact that he had no idea what the price should be, and he can't help the pride that spreads its wings in his heart. (though he probably shouldn't be, considering why you smiled, he was glad that he was the cause of it.) 

the rest of the shopping goes in a similar manner. you tell him things. he nods, he observes another one of your features, then notes down whatever you tell him mentally. 

by the time you reach check out, both of your trolleys are filled with the exact same items in the exact same quantities. except for two items in his cart that he reached for out of instinct when he saw them on the shelf: a chocolate his brother liked, and a snack his father used to eat often. 

he contemplates leaving them behind, but decides against it at the last minute just before the cashier scans them.

he sees you reach into your pockets for a wallet, and sees an opportunity to repay you for your help. 

he's quick to pull out his own and hands his card to the cashier before you can say a word.

“i insist,” he says, when you protest. “it is only fair i do this in return for you helping me,”

you sigh, giving him another one of the smiles he had started to adore. “alright, thank you.”

the two of you walk outside the store together. cool wind ruffles both of your hair. “well, i guess this is where we part ways,” you say with a laugh and a wave. he manages a soft smile in return. 

“farewell, then.” he watches you walk away, still standing at the entrance, shopping bags in hand. "dammit." he curses under his breath.

he'd forgotten to ask for your name.

[lionheartedmusings]

something that i've been thinking about a lot since the egg event in purgatory is that i firmly disagree when people say that fate of the whole thing was sealed when soulfire's egg was removed, because for me that was locked and loaded on the first couple days on egg island.

bolas has absolutely lost the plot, and has been feeding their own victim complex to make it through the days, all the while becoming more and more brutal and ruthless because somehow in winning they feel like they're proving everyone wrong. no one thinks they're weak or disadvantaged, that's in their head, and because they need a justification for their actions they accept it... but they also want to prove themselves. it's a really dangerous kind of mentality (on top of their actual cult) because for better or for worse, a lot of the time when they're together they seem to have kind of lost sight of why they're here. they might be thinking about the eggs and wanting to protect them, but their isolation has created an us vs. them thought process that makes them unpredictable. case in point: they saw a win and they ran towards it, screaming and brandishing weapons, cheering as they finished off the egg. they were *always* going to end up there.

ggn are a wolf pack, they're driven, and for better or for worse they're incredibly measured in how they act both as individuals and as a collective. they're still all there mentally, they know their mission and that they need to accomplish it, they still see their friends in these people, they haven't given up honor and they won't. but... well, the wolf pack wants to hunt, and they're made up of people who know the art of taking calculated risks -- i'm not surprised they went for the "damage not kill" strat and only snapped in retaliation and anger that bolas had gone this far. they *want* to win, they *need* to win, they might just step all over the line and maybe put a foot out but they won't cross over it, not entirely.

soulfire may have a very scary dog and some very impulsive moments they need to chill on, but for better or for worse they have their eyes very firmly on the prize: this is for the eggs. that isn't to say that they're the only ones, but they're very very actively motivated to do *everything* they can to get them back. hell, tubbo logged on drunk off his mind at 4am to win "for dapper". it never at any point crossed my mind any of the soulfire team would actually land a hit on the eggs because for better or for worse, despite having done some fucked up shit, the eggs are untouchable and they'll fall on their swords for them any time. they made a deal and they stuck with it, and i don't think it would've matter if they had 1 player or 50 because they all stand together on this topic. they were *always* going to lose, because they refuse to cross that line (and they keep their agreements).

[rootsofdread]

Hello! While I had intended to place my second request when my first one was completed, I'm worried you'll close your asks before then, so here we go. A gender neutral reader who steals the killer's melee weapons. It's not a one off thing, no, it's something they do all the time. They grab it and run. I'll leave what killers to you, I want to be surprised, but please do two if you have the time. Sincerely, a wolf.

did three for ya, wolf! :-D

Evan MacMillan / The Trapper:

Evan had lodged his cleaver into a tree to set up some traps unencumbered, he knew he’d be unhappy if he ran into one of the survivors without it, but he figured it was the best way to do it quickly. A little while later, he came back to find it had been ripped out of the bark. The tracks in the dirt were still fresh, he knew you had to have only recently taken it. He huffed. He knew it was a mistake to leave it behind, now one of you has taken it…bear trap in hand, he sets off to find where you’d run off to. He found you almost halfway across the grounds using his cleaver to hack down a wall. His hand twitched.

He’s already an angry man, and taking his weapon just makes him angry. It’s a quick way to set him off rampaging through the grounds slaughtering anyone in his path simply to find where you’ve gone with it. He finds a way without his cleaver, you’ve seen it first-hand. Fortunately, with his weapon, you’re able to do a moderate amount of defending yourself and your teammates — until he grabs you by the collar of your shirt and stares deep into your soul, disapprovingly.

Even though he gets angry, he feels like he has to admire your fighting spirit when you decide to use his own weapon against him. You remind him of himself, in a weird way…and in an even weirder way, he likes that. You’d think he’d come to hate you for taking his things, but it’s quite the opposite.

Max Thompson, Jr. / The Hillbilly:

The first time you’d done it, Max had only set his chainsaw down for a second to throw somebody on a hook. He didn’t even know anyone else was lurking around. When he turned to pick it back up, it was gone. At first, he thought he must’ve misremembered where he put it. He doesn’t have the best memory, and it’s happened before…until he saw you running around in the distance with something clutched in your hand that didn’t look like anything you were supposed to have. He didn’t immediately register that it was his chainsaw, but when he did…to say he was furious would be an understatement.

After this, he’s a little more careful about where he puts his chainsaw and when he puts it there. He checks around corners before setting it down to make sure you’re not hiding nearby to swipe it. Sometimes, you don’t, and he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to chase you down to get it back. Unfortunately, most of the time you do end up getting your hands on it one way or another; he’d be willing to throw away the entire trial just to get it back and throw you on a hook for inconveniencing him.  

He doesn’t appreciate your thievery, but sometimes, he does seem to appreciate having someone to run around with. Nobody else cares much for him; and even though he doesn’t read your stealing as caring, necessarily, you’re still spending time around him, and going out of your way to do so. Some part of him almost, in a way, finds it sweet that you’re doing this.

Talbot Grimes / The Blight:

Talbot had accidentally thrown his cane a ways away once when trying to rush at someone. Miraculously, the hit had landed, but he had no idea where the Bonebuster had gone off to. He glanced around as he carried them over to a hook, trying to see the glint of the top in the moonlight; instead, in it’s place where it had landed, he saw you brandishing it and grinning. The second you realized he was staring at you, you bolted away with it. He cursed at you. He needs that, you insolent twerp, give it back! He immediately threw his victim on the ground and rushed after you.

You’d be surprised how often his cane slips out of his hand, and how many opportunities you have to snag it. Sometimes, he even thinks he’s safe setting it down for just a moment to replenish his energy with his serum. You take every chance you get, and he’s angry every single time, without fail. He’s not one for colorful language, he is a scientist, and a gentleman, after all, but it comes out when he’s running after you. Most of the time, you catch the giggling of other survivors as he curses at you. It’s so unlike him.

That said, he seems to have a strange admiration for your boldness, your courage, your willingness to push the limits and the buttons of himself and, as far as he can assume, other killers. No one else is quite as brave as you are, stealing his weapon and getting close enough to do so, for that, he feels he has to give you credit. He may even be compelled to run experiments: exactly how close are you willing to get?